Chapter Ten
Jack and Phryne had the comfortable option; they shared some reasonable coffee, bacon and eggs at a linen-clothed table. The Caledonian might not be of the scale or luxurious depths of the Windsor, but it clearly understood the importance of the first meal of the day.
The only person who appeared not to be addressing the event with due reverence was a youth with an unfortunate complexion, who could have done with some lessons at the Mr Butler School of Subtlety. The coffee pot was slammed on the table with no offer to pour; plates were stacked noisily next to the customers' ears, and so carelessly that on one occasion their contents were decanted onto the carpet.
The sleuths' eyes met, and Phryne gave a ghost of a wink; there seemed little doubt that this was Master Scott.
They lingered over the coffee until the room was almost empty of other guests, and the rest of the staff had disappeared, leaving the youth to gather up the table linen for the laundry. He did so with ill grace and little patience, especially with the two customers who couldn't get the message that breakfast was over. Eventually, he went to snatch Phryne's saucer as she lifted the cup to her lips.
"I beg your pardon," she remarked icily. "Please put that back."
"Breakfast finished twenty minutes ago," he said sulkily. "Clear out."
"We shall do so the instant we finish our coffee," she responded. "And you are?"
"None o' your business," he mumbled, still clutching the saucer.
"That's all right, Mr Scott, I think we knew anyway," remarked Jack helpfully,
The reaction was exactly as desired. The youth slammed the saucer back down on the table.
"Who told you?" he asked angrily. "Was it that Agnes? She's always trying to get me into trouble."
"I'm quite sure you don't need any help with that, Wilfred," replied Phryne comfortingly. "Anyone who can fail so conclusively at so many careers can almost certainly achieve trouble single-handedly."
"What are you on about?" he shouted, backing away. Jack stood, and pulled a chair across from the neighbouring table.
"Sit down, Wilfred. We're going to have a little chat. My name's Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, and this is Miss Phryne Fisher, and we'd like to ask you about some jewellery."
"Don't know what you're talking about," he said hastily.
"Miss Fisher?" Dot called from the doorway. She held up a handkerchief in which a weighty object was wrapped.
"Come in, Miss Williams," Phryne invited. "Have you found anything?"
"Plenty, Miss Fisher," her partner responded. "I just happened to be passing the staff quarters, and all the doors were simply standing open. Imagine that!"
"Imagine!" agreed Phryne, eyes wide.
"So I went into one of them, and what should I find under the mattress but a whole bundle of lovely sparkly stones." She opened the handkerchief and spilled its contents on to the table.
Wilfred went pale, and leaped to his feet, sprinting for the door – only to be brought up short by the very solid presence of Senior Constable Collins, who suggested that he was in a bit of a hurry, and should really go back and sit down, my lad.
Fatherhood had definitely brought Hugh's ability to patronise along by leaps and bounds, thought Dot admiringly.
Not being given any other options by a man twice his size and considerably stronger, Wilfred did so.
Jack leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, ready for a comfortable chat. "So, Mr Scott, was it difficult to sneak past the sales staff …" he glanced at Miss Fisher.
"Percival and Lucas," she supplied helpfully. He thanked her politely, and turned back to Wilfred. "How on earth did you get past Percival and Lucas, Mr Scott?"
"Back door," he muttered.
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that – there's a back door? Yes, but it's locked at all times, Mr Scott. No-one could get in that way," Phryne disagreed – and successfully drove a perfectly-structured stiletto shoe through Wilfred Scott's Achilles Heel.
"Nah, s'easy," he boasted. "Pressed a key in about five seconds when I was in there learning silversmithing – ruddy stupid job if you ask me, what's wrong with brass?" came the crass aside.
Oh, this one was going to be worth milking, thought Phryne. But she kept a straight face as Jack took up the strain.
"You surely weren't sneaking in during the night, Mr Scott?" he asked with just the right degree of disbelief.
"'Course I was!" he said scornfully. "Well, mostly. Just pick up a few bits an' bobs here and there. Serve that Lampeter right. Should have let me be. So what am I looking at? A few months in jail? No worries. Dad'll get me off anyway," he sneered.
Phryne swallowed her nausea and turned brightly to her business partner.
"Anything else you found in the room, Miss Williams?"
"Not really, Miss Fisher. I didn't want to wait long, you see, because of the smell."
"The smell?"
"Yes, Miss Fisher. There was a terrible smell coming from the rubbish bin."
"How awful, Miss Williams! And in such a high quality establishment as this! What caused the smell?"
"You'll not believe me, Miss Fisher."
"I shall try to suspend disbelief, Miss Williams."
"Someone appeared to have eaten raw fish for supper several days ago, and simply thrown what they didn't eat it in the bin in their room."
"There's no accounting for taste, is there?"
Jack had been following the exchange appreciatively, but felt it was time to intervene.
"Mr Scott, why was there rotten fish in your waste bin?"
Silence.
"Mr Scott, where did the fish come from? And for what purpose was it used?"
Still silence, apart from a rather pathetic snivelling sound.
Miss Fisher glanced around for inspiration, and caught sight of a gentleman of managerial aspect passing the dining room door. She walked swiftly across the room and collared him.
"Are you the manager of the hotel?"
"The duty manager, madam, until the manager arrives in," he glanced at an elegant pocket-watch, "a few minutes."
"Did any of the guests in your restaurant suffer a case of food poisoning last Friday?"
He glanced both ways, and drew her into the dining room, closing the door – he had yet to notice the party at the table.
"Are you from the press?" She confirmed that she was not. "In any case, no, we didn't – but we had a lucky escape. The fish hadn't been stored properly, and had to be thrown away – the whole batch. Chef was furious."
She thanked him warmly, and invited him to explain the situation again to the gentleman in the dark blue suit sitting at the table with one of the hotel's employees.
Wilfred, by this time, was weeping in earnest.
"They'd just get a tummy ache! I wanted her to get a tummy ache, and be sick! That's what it's like. It's what it was like when old man Lampeter told me I didn't have a job any more. And then I came back here and dad told me I was a failure and I'd never be any use for any-thi-i-i-ng," he wailed.
Jack stood and dragged the boy to his feet by one elbow.
"Not content with nearly sending Lampeter's out of business with a series of robberies, you rubbed rotten fish onto the comb of Mrs Lampeter's tiara, to make her ill." He stated it as a fact, and the young man nodded sullenly. Hugh Collins made a note.
"Both Mrs Lampeter and her maid died in the early hours of yesterday morning from a severe dose of botulism, Mr Scott." Wilfred looked at him in sheer horror.
"But … but … I didn't mean …."
"I'll have to ask you to accompany me to the station. Would you," he looked at the manager, who had himself collapsed into a chair and was gazing at Wilfred, aghast, "like to inform Mr Scott senior that his son is at City South police station, please?"
The manager could only nod wordlessly as Constable Collins took charge of the prisoner.
"I wouldn't worry," remarked Jack to Wilfred conversationally. "If your father gets a good enough lawyer, you probably won't hang."
Not even Dot was able to summon up a great deal of pity as the youth was half-led, half-carried away between the two policemen. Though she did make a mental note to pray for him. And for his lawyer.